


Parallel Lives: Further Glimpses

by aphreal



Series: Parallel Lives [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Gen, Profanity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphreal/pseuds/aphreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parallel Lives is a fusion AU translating Dragon Age characters into a Mass Effect Setting. It follows six Wardens, one from each origin, along with various Origins and Awakenings companions.</p><p>This is a collection of (mostly) prompted scenes that follow up on the characters' introductions in "Six Glimpses". Including things like Morrigan meeting Theron's unusual VI and Zevran's continuing attempts to make a good impression on Gwen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting Merrill

**Author's Note:**

> Written during NaNo 2012, for a prompt by signcherie: how about… Morrigan meeting Merrill?

Theron ushered the human and krogan onto his ship, letting the latter precede him because he still wasn’t entirely comfortable having Sten at his unguarded back. 

“If you don’t need anything else here, I’m ready to leave this planet.”

Morrigan made a face clearly indicating distaste. “We have spent far longer here than intended. I can think of no further reason to stay.” 

Theron nodded, moving to his data analysis station to allow his omnitool to interface with the ship’s data storage, uploading the readings he had taken on the planet’s air and soil samples. “You said you had a list of planets for us to look at. You can give the coordinates to my ship’s VI, and she’ll plot us a course.” He raised his voice, no longer addressing Morrigan. “Merrill?”

The VI’s hologram shimmered to life, a translucent drell woman with a warm smile. “Hi, Theron!” she said chirpily. “Welcome back. I’ll start processing that data as soon as it’s uploaded, although I have to admit it doesn’t look that promising initially. Still, you never know what you’ll find until you look properly.” She blinked, nictitating membranes flicking quickly over her dark eyes, a reaction of surprise in drell as well as humans. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company. Hello!” 

Morrigan and Sten were staring at Merrill’s holographic presence with extreme wariness. 

Theron stepped in to provide introductions. “Merrill, meet Morrigan and Sten. They’re going to be traveling with us for a while. Sten, Morrigan, this is my ship’s VI. I call her Merrill.” 

“It appears unusually advanced.” Theron hadn’t yet learned to read Sten’s tone well enough to determine if he was hearing specific contempt and distrust or simply the low-level disdain the krogan seemed to apply to most things he encountered. 

Merrill didn’t appear to take offense, possibly because she wasn’t programmed to do so, although Theron wouldn’t swear to that. “Oh, yes. I have code for lots of things that a typical VI never needs to do. I help Theron navigate the ship, analyze data, and organize his messages. I also keep him company and handle routine communications. So I need a little bit more initiative than most VIs are programmed with. Don’t worry; I’m perfectly harmless.” 

“I was never concerned that you might not be.” The krogan’s tone was still cool and aloof, but he looked slightly more relaxed than when Merrill had first appeared. Theron considered that a positive sign; a twitchy, tense krogan was not something he wanted to be trapped on a ship with for a space voyage of any length. 

Morrigan, meanwhile, had been accessing a file on her own omnitool. She calmly addressed Merrill, appearing entirely unruffled by the VI’s unusual nature. “I’ve a list of planets and systems we wish to travel to. What would be the most efficient way to input the information into your system?” 

“There are several options for data input. If you prefer to avoid interfacing, you can read me the list, and I’ll convert it into a text file, subject to your approval of spelling, which is pretty important because I don’t always get that right. Especially with accents. You can interface your omnitool like Theron is doing, although you’d probably need to wait until he’s finished uploading everything. It shouldn’t take long; I’m just double-checking all of his readings now. I’d probably want to scan your system for bugs or viruses before you upload that way. It’s nothing personal, but I don’t like picking up strange files when I don’t know where they’ve been. It’s just not safe. You could use an OSD if you don’t want to interface directly. I wouldn’t need to scan your omnitool that way, so if you’re concerned about privacy, it could be a good compromise. Those are probably the easiest options, and I’m fine with any of them. Which would you prefer to do?” 

Merrill finally came to a stop, and Theron found himself taking a breath on her behalf, as he often did following her particularly long speeches. 

Morrigan was silent for a moment, presumably processing all of the information she had just been deluged with, before responding. “Is there an OSD I might borrow?” 

Theron fished one out of his pocket and handed it to her. 

Nodding acknowledgement, Morrigan took it and hooked it up to transfer the file from her omnitool. She then loaded the data into one of the ship’s main terminals. “’Tis always so forthcoming?” 

“Merrill? Yes.” Theron nodded emphatically. “Think carefully about whether you really want an answer before you ask her a question.” 

“And you rely on ‘her’ for much of your data analysis?” 

Again, Theron confirmed her inference. 

Morrigan looked thoughtful. “Might I make use of these subroutines in my own research?” 

“Of course.” Theron turned from the woman to the VI. “Merrill, when you have spare processing power that you don’t need to keep the ship running or perform other higher-priority tasks, you are free to work on whatever research questions Morrigan would like you to assist with. Provided they don’t pose any harm to the ship or its inhabitants.” He added in an aside to Morrigan. “You have to be sure to tell her things like that; she can be distressingly short-sighted at times.” 

“Indeed.” Morrigan’s golden eyes were cool, but Theron thought there was a hint of appraisal in her expression. “This has the potential to be highly useful. I will make good use of your assistance.” 

Theron wasn’t entirely sure whether she was talking to him or the VI, and the calculating look on her face made him reluctant to find out. His voyage had definitely just gotten a lot more complicated.


	2. A Crow and an Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written during NaNo 2012. I received two prompts for this one. signcherie's: "I’d like to see more Gwen/Zev. If you need something more specific, I’d like to see Zevran do something that really impresses Gwen. Something more than his skill in combat situations." and one from seeherwrite: "I’d like to see anything cute with Gwen and Zevran. Like him helping her patch her suit after a firefight, and talking."

“Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it. Damn it!” Gwen hissed under her breath, as she examined her enviro-suit. 

“Something wrong, my lovely angel of death?”

Gwen bit her tongue, resisting the urge to snap at Zevran’s intrusion. She didn’t have the attention to spare for him right now. She returned to checking her seals, hoping that if she ignored him he might take the hint and leave her alone. It had never worked in the past, but determined optimism in the face of overwhelming evidence had always been part of her make-up. 

“Ah, a suit tear.” Zevran carefully ran an appraising finger along the edge of the small rip in the arm of her enviro-suit. 

Gwen nodded grimly, flinching away from his touch. A breach in her suit was bad enough without someone introducing extra contamination. “Shrapnel from that last grenade, I bet. I thought I’d gotten away clean, but then I found this nick.” Fortunately, the seals seemed to have all engaged properly, isolating the affected region to limit the potential damage. She would take whatever small miracles she could get; luck and minor blessings seemed to be what kept mercs alive, and Gwen had every intention of surviving this job. 

“So fragile, this barrier that keeps you safe from the world. Quarian suits are little different from skin, I think. Things that protect us can either isolate or connect. No need to ask which you have chosen, hmm?” 

Bristling, Gwen gritted her teeth against a sharp retort. Rising to his bait only encouraged him. Not that much she’d tried so far seemed to _dis_ courage him. Instead of responding, she dug through her pockets for a repair patch. She’d need to seal the rip before she could decontaminate her suit and determine the extent of the damage. 

“Let me help with that.” Zevran deftly took the patch kit from her hand. “This is a difficult location for you to reach on your own. You’re fortunate I’m here.” 

Gwen grabbed for the patch. “Give that back. I’d rather twist around a bit than trust my repair to an amateur.” 

He smoothly held it out of her reach. “As I say, you are fortunate I’m here so you do not need to do either.” 

Gwen regarded him skeptically, eyes narrowed through her face plate. “You have experience with enviro-suit repair?” 

Zevran nodded, calmly settling in with access to the back of her arm and preparing the patch kit. The usual exaggerated leering grin had dropped from his face, replaced by a thoughtful expression of concentration that Gwen thought suited him far better. “Not many quarian choose to leave the Fleet and become soldiers of fortune, but I have fought beside a few – though none so lovely as yourself.” 

Gwen rolled her eyes at the return of his near-habitual over-done flattery. “All you’ve seen – all you’ll ever see – is my suit. You might as well find whoever manufactured it and heap all of your praise on them. Shower the tailor with your ‘lovely’ and ‘beautiful’ nonsense.” 

“Not at all. A woman’s true beauty is in how she moves, how she carries herself. You are graceful, elegant, precise. Your suit conceals all distraction and lets the truth of you shine through. This is what I mean when I say you are lovely.” 

Gwen was utterly taken aback by this moment of apparent sincerity. Unlike all of his previous compliments, that sounded like something he might actually mean. Suddenly, his proximity made her uncomfortable in an entirely different way than usual, despite the calm, competent way he was handling her suit repair. 

“As I say, quarian mercenaries are rarities in my experience, most with stories worth hearing. What was it that called you away from the Migrant Fleet?” 

“You can’t leave somewhere you’ve never been.” His able assistance – however unsolicited – seemed to warrant a degree of candor, and Gwen found herself telling him a story she hadn’t shared since embarking on her current life as a mercenary. “I was born on Omega, part of a Shipless community there. A collection of exiles, pilgrims who never went back, and freeborn like me.” She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “Freeborn! They were so proud of not being bound by the rules of the Fleet and the Admiralty Board. All it meant was we were free to starve, free to catch the pestilences that were endemic in whatever holes we could find to squat in. Free to make our own rules while we died. Some freedom.” 

“I can see why you might want to put such a life behind you.” Zevran’s tone was neutral. 

“I didn’t leave them!” Gwen whirled to glare at him, jerking her arm away, heedless of the delicate repair procedure she might be interrupting. “Not the way you mean. This job… everything I’m doing here, it’s for them. We can’t be real quarians without the Migrant Fleet. I’m going to earn enough to buy our way in. All of us.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she shared her deepest, most secret hope. “I’m going to get us a ship.” 

Zevran calmly recovered his grip on her arm, inspecting the patch and tsking quietly to himself as he set to completing his work. Gwen waited uncomfortably while he finished. She had just bared her secrets to him, and he wasn’t going to say anything? Of all the times she had wished he would just shut up, he chose now to be silent? 

After a few moments, he gave a satisfied nod. “That should hold, I think. You will want to run diagnostics and sterilize, yes? I shall go lest my presence prove too distracting for such delicate work.” He winked broadly before rising lithely to his feet. 

“That’s it?” The words came out of Gwen’s mouth before she could think about them. “You asked for my story, and you’re just going to walk away.” 

“What is there for me to say? You do not need my approval. It is not for a crow to tell an angel where she might fly.” 

And with a tiny sketched bow that was far less mocking than it ought to have been, he was gone, leaving Gwen to begin testing his repair and puzzling over the entire interaction.


	3. Deal with a Volus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written during NaNo 2012. No specific prompt beyond signcherie mentioning she'd like to see more of Gwen's story. I decided to show her a bit more of Gwen's deal with Oghren and his weaponsmith partners.

It was nearly a month before Gwen ran across the enigmatic volus again. Not surprisingly, she found him in a bar. 

Oghren dropped into a seat at her table without waiting for an invitation or offering a greeting. “Rifle’s been working out for you,” he said, gesturing for the waitress to bring him a drink. 

Gwen tensed, expecting that she was going to finally discover the price expected from her in this arrangement. Glad for once that her facial expressions were concealed, she focused on keeping her posture and voice casual. “It’s a nice bit of work that’s served me well on several jobs so far. I’d be happy to give your friend a more detailed report if you like.” 

“She pulls to the left.” The blunt statement startled Gwen, and that must have shown in her posture because Oghren followed it with a hissing laugh and a large gulp from his drink. 

“I haven’t noticed anything wrong.” 

“You wouldn’t; you’re good enough that you’ve compensated without even knowing it.” The volus shrugged his rounded shoulders. “I told you my buddy can find his toys. He monitors every prototype we send out. The guy’s a rabid perfectionist, but he’s the best there is, and he knows every detail of every piece he’s ever made. You don’t argue with that kind of crazy. If he says she’s pulling to the left, she’s pulling to the left. So hand her over.” He tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. 

Gwen’s hand went protectively to the compact rifle on her back. “You said yourself that I’m compensating, so it’s not really a problem. I can keep using it effectively.” 

“Course you can, but my buddy will get better info if you let me fix her.” He sighed a long hiss through his respirator. “And he’ll never shut up about it if you don’t. You don’t want me to suffer, do you?” 

Gwen blinked. This was not how she expected business negotiations to go, especially not with a volus. For a member of a race known for ruthless mercenary spirit, Oghren was surprisingly informal. Gwen had yet to decide whether or not this was some elaborate act designed to throw her off guard. If so, she couldn’t work out his purposes yet; he would have to be running an awfully long game on her. Or maybe he was just as crazy as he seemed. She wasn’t sure which option was more concerning. 

Still, she was reluctant to part with the rifle. Oghren had been right about it giving her an edge, and she wanted to hold on to any advantage she could get. “How long will the adjustment take? There’s a rumor of another job leaving tomorrow, and I want to be on it. Fully armed.” 

The volus gave another hissing laugh, gurgling through the alcohol in his glass. “If you want to drag this out until tomorrow, I don’t mind the company. Exotic women rarely want to spend _more_ time with me.” 

Gwen faltered. “You can fix it here?” 

Oghren nodded, pulling out a small mechanical part that he set down on the table. “Switch that out and she’s good to go. You go on tomorrow’s mission, and my buddy gets off my back about it. Everybody’s happy.” 

Reluctantly, Gwen pulled the rifle out and passed it across the table, still folded into its compact form. With a few smooth motions – far more deft than Gwen would have expected given his stubby fingers and perpetual inebriation – Oghren expanded the rifle, removed a part, and slipped the replacement module into place with a click. 

No one at the nearby tables so much as flinched at the sound of a high powered rifle being expanded. It was that kind of bar. 

Oghren ran his hands lovingly over the stock and barrel before sliding the gun back across the table to Gwen. “Little beauty should be good as new now. Probably better.” He sounded almost wistful about giving the rifle back. “If you really are planning on shipping out tomorrow, get in a few hours of target practice today. You should adjust back quick enough, but no sense taking the time for it when someone’s trying to kill you for real. Unless you’re that hard up for excitement.” He chortled into his drink again, producing another hissing, bubbling noise that sounded altogether unwholesome. 

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

“So what’re you waiting for, then? You decided to start drinking with me after all?” He flagged the waitress down by waving his empty glass in the air. “Order quick if you’re meaning to catch up.” 

“Of course not.” Gwen tried not to let her distaste show too plainly, focusing back on the business arrangement at hand. “I was waiting to find out what you wanted to know about our recent jobs.” She set a hand on the rifle. “You said the price was information. I don’t like being in debt.” 

The hissing cacophony of laughter went on for several minutes. Gwen had the sense that the volus would have been wiping tears from his eyes if his face hadn’t been encased in a pressure suit. When he finally calmed down and began regaining his breath, Oghren waved a hand at her almost dismissively. “No need,” he gasped out, words punctuated by the mechanical rasp of his breather apparatus. “Wade’s not the only one who monitors that baby. I already know everything I need to.” He chortled merrily again. “You go practice, girl. Stay sharp. Hate to see anything happen to such a promising merc girl.” 

Fuming and deeply uneasy, Gwen stood up from the table, sharply snapping the rifle back into its compacted form and leaving without another word. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that revelation or its possible implications; being “monitored” by a crude volus with no clear agenda and serious resources made her nervous. But the one thing he was definitely right about was that she needed to practice with the modified gun before hopefully putting her life on the line using it tomorrow. And a target range seemed like a good place to work through some of her conflicted thoughts and emotions.


	4. Heaven doesn't exist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by angst-starter prompt(s) from Chenria: Heaven doesn't exist. Hell is the only place we're going to be going.

Natia woke up and stretched languidly, enjoying having the space to spread her limbs out. Sleeping with a man a foot taller than her came with the unexpected benefit of a bed that felt luxuriously oversized compared to the cramped bunks she’d gotten used to.

Her ritual morning sprawl didn’t encounter a warm body or lingering heat in the sheets. Anders must have gotten up early and managed not to wake her. She owed him a kiss for that. And a second if he’d remembered to leave her any coffee.

Things were different with just the two of them, since Jowan’s mutiny stripped away the rest of her squad. Fucking cowards, all of them. Especially Jowan, poisoning the rest of them with his spineless fears about Alliance retribution. As if their resistance could cause the Alliance to do something worse to her people than what they already did. Worse than sculpting children into killers. Worse than sending armed invaders into peaceful communities, fragile sanctuaries. Worse than experimenting on them and abandoning them. Worse than treating them like lab rats and monsters and criminals. Worse than _turning them into_ lab rats and monsters and criminals.

What the hell kind of Alliance retribution was Jowan so afraid of? Everything was already happening to them, even when biotics tried to be good little obedient model citizens. So why the fuck shouldn’t they fight back against their oppressors and aggressors? They could only make things better because it sure as hell couldn’t get worse.

That’s why it was nice sometimes with the rest of them gone. She didn’t have to explain herself to Anders; he understood because he’d lived it. Anders had survived the hell of BAaT, of being a rejected and abandoned L2, one of the few dangerous embarrassments they hadn’t managed to get rid of and cover up in the years since.

So fuck Jowan and the rest of his cowardly sycophants, all of them too scared to see the real threat. Anders was all she needed. His “unstable” L2 implant and raw power made him stronger than the rest of them put together. And without all of the fearful whining, they could start going after real targets. Anders had been hinting yesterday that he’d found one. A big one. Maybe that was what he’d gotten up early to work on. He’d have a plan put together by now, and she couldn’t wait to hear it.

Smiling grimly, Natia made her way through the tiny safehouse. She didn’t smell coffee, but she refused to let that ruin the effect of getting to sleep in for once. She could always make more coffee, and then mess up Anders’s hair as she scolded him for not leaving her any.

She didn’t make it as far as the kitchen. Anders wasn’t at his desk, and neither was any of his usual clutter. The workspace was disturbingly clean, with only a single datapad sitting out, conspicuous and ominous.

Warily, Natia picked it up and read the file that flickered to life at her touch.

_I’m sorry. Natia, I’m so damned sorry._

_Not for doing what I’m doing or for leaving you behind, because I don’t regret either of those decisions. I’m sorry because I know it’s going to hurt you that I did.  
I found a target. I told you that. What I didn’t tell you is that it’s a big one, too big for our usual tactics. It’s a chance to stop something major, something systematic, abuse on a scale nobody’s tried since Brain Camp. But that means this isn’t some slaver or mad scientist we can take out and go on our way. This one is going to take a commitment - a serious, one-way commitment - and that’s not something I can ask you to do, Natia. I’m not coming back from this one, and I’m sorry about that more than anything._

_You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. When we first started, I thought I’d finally found what I’d been looking for all along. I thought we could stand against all of the wrongs in the galaxy, a pair of avenging angels making things right again._

_But heaven doesn’t exist, and there’s no way to even the scales. People like us, with everything we’ve done, hell is the only place we’re going. I’ll be there waiting for you. Send me some company before you come join me._

Natia hurled the datapad across the room in a streak of blue light. Fucking bastard. Did he think he could go on a suicide mission without her? Did he think she wasn’t every damned bit as committed to the cause as he was? Did he think she was going to let him throw his fucking life away while she slept in and drank coffee and pretended everything was normal and fine?

Teeth gritted with fury and blinking away tears, she screamed at the VI until it pieced together the files Anders thought he had scrubbed before leaving. Grissom Academy. He’d gone to take down Grissom Academy. There was no way in hell she’d let him do it alone.


End file.
